


Glimpses of the Past, an Actress Remembers

by Anonymous



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The publication of Irene Adler's memoir is met with public acclaim from all corners, except for the one containing Colonel Sebastian Moran.





	Glimpses of the Past, an Actress Remembers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowynight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowynight/gifts).



> This fic is inspired by _Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles_ and does not take into account anything from _Angels of Music_.

The man in the tattered overcoat sidled up to the window of the bookshop. There were traces of a military bearing in the straight back that refused to be bowed by age, but he had clearly passed well beyond eighty.

The book was not featured in the centre of the window—that space belonged to a lovely edition of _The Forsyte Saga_ —nor was it the book that accompanied most of the shop’s patrons—that would be _The Sheik_ —but it did have a corner to itself.

 _Glimpses of the Past, an Actress Remembers_ , the gilt letters proclaimed above an artist’s rendition of a familiar photograph. Filmy scarves had been added as a concession to public morality, but her sultry eyes and pouting lips left no mistake as to what she thought the public could do with its morality.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of Afghanistan and Pentonville, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the bookshop. He had to know what had happened to the most confounded woman he had ever met. An hour later, after repeated reminders that this was a shop, not a library, he knew the worst. Irene Adler Norton had lived happily ever after, and to add insult to injury, she was obscenely rich. Despondent, Moran flipped to the index, and the final blow fell.

Morales, Inez Clara, rivalry with, 116

Moriarty, James, 101

Moriarty, James, 92-94, 101

The torrent of language that issued from him at this final slight motivated the bookseller to request his absence from the shop. Moran acquiesced, but with _Glimpses of the Past, an Actress Remembers_ tucked away securely and secretly. A considerable amount of money had been set aside for Moran’s post-prison comfort, but he was an old dog who loved performing his old tricks.

Moran settled in to read. After 1891, the year the Firm was destroyed, Irene had travelled through Europe, nights interrupted by weeping following the news of the death of her dear friend Mr Holmes. She returned to her beloved New York, reunited with her adored husband, and proceeded to spend her way into Society. Moran snorted as he read, his moustache quivering in outrage at the flood of famous names and extravagant adjectives littering Irene’s tale. He turned the pages back and decided to start at the beginning.

> _Glimpses of the Past_
> 
> The letter announcing my father’s death arrived in the summer of my sixteenth year, a few days before the summer holidays were to begin. Those bound for New York were envied by the ones who were returning to the Middle West, and the ones who planned to travel abroad were cloaked in the glamour of remote foreign capitals and spent their last night in excited chatter. Alone, I kept silent. I folded and re-folded the letter, hoping that if I turned the paper correctly, it would fold into itself and disappear. The carriages came, trunks were loaded, breathless kisses and warm promises exchanged, and the rooms that once echoed with laughter became empty.
> 
> I was more fortunate than others in my position. The small legacy that my mother had brought to the marriage had been saved for me and would prove sufficient for me to continue my schooling. My father’s terrible luck at cards and other games of chance ensured that I would never be an heiress, oh, but I do not wish to speak of my father’s vices in this way now that he is no longer with us. He was a kind man, generous when luck was on his side, and even more magnanimous when it turned against him, believing with his perennial optimism that all would ever be right with the world. He missed my mother terribly, and I sometimes would catch him in whispered conversation with the portrait of her that hung beside his desk. Her gold and white looks, so unlike mine, a round face crowned with heavenly gold curls, and if my father ever regretted that my dark hair and eyes so closely followed his mother and sisters, he never said. As the years passed and my grief subsided, I imagined how exquisite his joy must have been when he awoke on the banks of that far shore and gazed into my mother’s sparkling green eyes.
> 
> The school was run by a pair of sisters who possessed a strong belief in the intellectual and artistic capacities of the girls under their care. I would hesitate to call them bluestockings, for although they prized books and modern languages more than needlepoint, there was an unworldliness about them, the innocence of the cloister even as they encouraged me to sing roles that might be considered daring. They would have been pleased to have me stay on as a singing instructor, but seven years in their educational establishment had instilled a longing in me for a grander world. As much as I loved my teachers and the predictability and comfort of the schoolroom, I knew that if I remained where I was, the years would fly swiftly and I would never experience life beyond this tranquil garden. With their blessing, I travelled into New York to make inquiries at an agency for governesses.
> 
> I do not believe it is within my powers to recreate the city as it appeared to me then. The shopkeepers calling out to crowded pavements, the rush of people, noisome odours from the damp morning streets and the smoky air that clings to every surface, all of that is familiar now and is as unremarkable as my own face in the glass.
> 
> Perhaps this is how Sherlock Holmes maintains his genius; he never allows the details to disappear with familiarity.
> 
> Some of you, my dear readers, may have heard my name in connection with his, but I assure you that we were never more than the dearest of friends. Dr. Watson, perhaps overly concerned with my privacy, altered many details in my tale, and appeared ignorant of the initial meeting between myself and Mr. Holmes.
> 
> I had resigned myself to a life where my voice would only be heard singing for the instruction of children, but Fate had other plans. My new employers were the Van Vechtens, a minor branch of a prominent Old New York family, who were one of the first to follow Mrs. Astor to Fifth Avenue. The children were easily pleased by my efforts in the schoolroom, and the days passed swiftly. My employer would often ask me to do a little singing after dinner, and one night the sound of my voice floated out to the street where it caught the attention of the director of the Academy of Music. He came rushing to the door and demanded that the singer reveal herself immediately. Despite my natural modesty and an inclination to shyness around strangers, I sat at the piano and began singing “Non posso disperar.” As I sang, I reflected on the losses I had known, my home, my parents, the brightness of the future, and when I finished, there may have been tears clustering around the edges of my eyelashes. I tried to wipe them away discreetly, but I was astonished by the waves of applause from every corner of the room. The Van Vechtens, their guests, the servants, and the children, who had escaped from their beds, they all gazed at me with such admiration that was all the more precious for being undeserved.

Moran tucked a cigarette wrapper between the pages and flipped ahead. It was truly astonishing how many of Irene’s stories ended with waves of applause surrounding her.

> The director of the Academy of Music later explained to me that as I sang, images of his lost love had appeared before his eyes and he felt the vigour of youth return to his loins. He was eager to demonstrate the vigour of youth, but I demurred, asking him what tragedy had befallen the love of his youth.
> 
> “I married her,” he said.
> 
> My employer was moved by my singing as well, and before the household retired to bed, he called me into his library and presented me with a jewellery case. I opened it, and was overwhelmed by the coruscating fire of diamonds.
> 
> “I would appreciate it if you would remain in this household,” he said. “The children would miss you.”
> 
> I thanked him for his generosity, but made no promises, at least I believe that accepting the diamonds did not imply an inclination to an untoward connection as gifts should be freely given.
> 
> At this time, a young man was staying with the Van Vechtens. He had recently completed his studies at one of the English universities, Camford or Oxbridge, I can’t remember which, and had come to New York to meet with the great scientific minds at work in our city. The tragedy that befell our house would not have happened in later years now as the name of Sherlock Holmes has become renowned for his ability to take in a scene and identify the miscreant from an unlucky footprint or errant ash, but he had not yet embarked on his career in those days. Here, in these pages, I can reveal how I may have played some small role in his subsequent triumphs.
> 
> The dramatis personae were as follows: Mr. and Mrs. Van Vechten, he from an old New York family, and she from a somewhat newer Massachusetts textile empire. Their children, delightful creatures of seven and eight. Mr. Peter Marvell, the Wellands from Boston, and the usual assortment of servants, who will not be listed here because you already know the great crime I am about to describe was not committed by one of their number. In the many cases chronicled by Dr. Watson for _The Strand_ , you can see that it is rare, although not unheard of, for a servant to be anything other than a distraction from the true thread of scarlet that runs through a case. It is an unfortunate truth in life that one is more likely to be struck down by beloved hands from which only tenderness should be expected than by a stranger.
> 
> The household was roused in the early hours of the morning by the screams of Mrs. Van Vechten. She had gone down to the library in search of her husband, and finding the door locked, had put her eye to keyhole and beheld a terrible sight—her husband, supine in a pool of blood. Her shrieks brought the rest of the household running, and a manservant was sent to fetch the police.
> 
> The household remained in the hall, a silence broken by occasional sobs, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes went into the library and stood near the body, surveying the room with his eyes narrowed.
> 
> “Mr. Holmes,” I said. “I don’t think you should be in here.”
> 
> “Would you like to know the identity of the murderer?” he replied.
> 
> I studied the room, wondering at the source of such confidence, and then my gaze fell to the unfortunate man whose life had ended in such violence. A few golden hairs clung to the shoulders of his jacket.
> 
> “The door was locked from the inside, and the key was in his pocket,” I said, more to myself than to Mr. Holmes. “The presence of these hairs suggests… when we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
> 
> “Yes,” he agreed. “It is impossible for any members of this household to have committed this crime; therefore, it must have been someone, or something, from the outside.” Mr. Holmes turned his sharp gaze upon me. “My theory is that an animal escaped from the zoo, a golden monkey, which would account for the brilliance of the hairs left behind, and that animal came down the chimney, stabbed Mr. Van Vechten with his wild strength, and driven by instinct, has returned by the paths that drove him here in the beginning.”
> 
> “I would never have thought of that, Mr. Holmes,” I said. My mind couldn’t help returning to the diamonds that had been given to me the previous day. “I am more inclined to believe it was his wife.”
> 
> “That would be an unlikely turn of events. They appear to be the most devoted of couples. In addition, there is the matter of the locked door.”
> 
> “You underestimate the ingenuity of our sex, Mr. Holmes.” I pulled out the slender strip of metal that pinned my unruly locks into respectability and let them tumble about my shoulders. “With this simple hairpin, many a woman has found her way past doors that should never have been opened. It would be a simple matter to slide an old-fashioned lock into place.”
> 
> Our conversation was interrupted by a tumult in the hall outside the library. At the arrival of the police, Mrs. Van Vechten confessed to the murder, saying it had been accomplished in a fit of jealous madness. I was not the first recipient of Mr. Van Vechten’s largesse, and some of his acquaintances were more agreeable than I had been.
> 
> The Old New York families closed ranks to protect the legacy of their name, so the murder was left unsolved and Mrs. Van Vechten was banished to a private hospital in the wilds of Long Island where she could be of no danger to anyone. However, some rumours of the cause of her jealousy had spread, and the Academy of Music was filled with an eager crowd the night I made my debut. As performances continued to sell out, the opera director was ecstatic, but I soon decided to sail for Europe to see how my small talent would fare on unfamiliar shores with more discerning audiences.
> 
> I continued to correspond with Mr. Holmes over the years, and he would often set small problems before me that had taxed his formidable intellect. So it was that I would find myself backstage at the great opera houses of the world, scribbling out a few notes on the habits of cormorants or giving advice on how to test the authenticity of a set of jewels.

The following chapters failed to hold Moran’s interest, being a chronicle of operas Irene had performed in and the wealthy and aristocratic people, not only men, who had showered her with gifts. His interest was re-captured by an overwritten account of Irene displaying an unexpected talent for sharpshooting as she uncovered a gang of blackmailers in Russell Square. After correcting erroneous details regarding the firearms, Moran set the book aside and considered a plan of action. Irene Norton had conquered New York society by outliving and outspending most of her critics, but now a new generation should be appraised of her infamy. He would publish a denunciation, a true account of her life and adventures. Failing that, a strongly worded letter to _The Times_ would suffice.

Moran knew exactly where to begin his quest for the truth. Sherlock Holmes. He endured the indignity of trains and rural taxis, and appeared on the detective’s doorstep. He had debated whether or not to inform Sherlock Holmes of his proposed visit, but the choice was made for him when it turned out that Holmes did not have a telephone and rarely accepted telegrams. Apparently the detective had moved to the country and stayed there, keeping one tiny corner of England free of crime and well supplied with honey.

“He’s round the back,” the housekeeper said, and Moran marvelled at the lack of security in the establishment considering that he was not the only former quarry who had been paroled into the turbulent 1920s.

Back in the days of the Firm, Moriarty had called him the Thin Man, an epithet that was even more warranted now. Holmes in an oversized beekeeper’s hat looked uncannily like an opened umbrella designed to shield bathers from the unpleasantness of the sun.

“Come to take your revenge?” Holmes drawled.

Moran was relieved by the insight Holmes demonstrated. Perhaps the great detective’s reputation had not been exaggerated.

“Revenge, yes, exactly what I was thinking,” said Moran.

“I notice you’ve left your revolvers at home. If you intend a physical attack, you should be warned that this walking stick conceals a weapon.” Holmes lifted the stick in a manner that was more threatening to himself than anyone else.

“If I wanted to, I could take that stick away from you and beat you with it,” Moran muttered. “I’m here to ask for help in getting revenge against Miss Adler, Mrs Norton, whatever that that trollop is calling herself these days. Do you know what she wrote about you in her book?”

Holmes shook his head, so Moran carefully read out the sections that concerned Holmes.

“She’s suggesting that she is the one who solved your cases.”

“Ah,” said Holmes.

“She’s insinuating that the two of you colluded in fleecing the King of Bohemia out of several bags of gold.”

“Hum,” said Holmes.

“She’s claiming that ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is a massive fraud created by John Watson in order to sell stories, and Mycroft Holmes, in order to hide corruption by the British government.”

“What does she say about you?” asked Holmes.

Moran glared at Holmes. “Who was the most dangerous man in London?” he asked. He needed to know this before he left the Thin Man to his bees. “If I was only the second most dangerous man in London, who was the first?”

Holmes smiled. For an unpleasant moment, it reminded Moran of the grotesque twitch the professor revealed when pleased.

“The most dangerous man in London? I think, Colonel Moran, you’ll find that you are talking to him at this very moment!”

Moran dozed on the train, exhausted, annoyed, and feeling his octogenarian status in every bone. It wasn’t fair what Holmes did, you couldn’t just call yourself the most dangerous man in London—it had to be earned.

Moran spent the next month working his way through the entries in the index, but all he got out of it was a slap in the face from Queen Flavia of Ruritania, and an urgent plea from H.G. Wells to deliver a letter to the former Miss Adler. Moran opened the letter, which was half in French and entirely soppy, and determined that he had no choice but to confront Irene directly. She would confess that her book was a pack of lies created by a shameless fabricator.

The voyage to New York was long and troublesome, and he could barely bring himself to relieve the young and foolish of their money at the card table. Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, he had once been told, and it had been true for him.

A letter from Holmes was waiting for him when he arrived at his hotel. “Although many of the details of are misleading, the broader outline is correct. My own research has shown that the girl’s school where she begins her narrative was in truth a vaudeville house in Paterson, New Jersey. Her exact words to me in the library on the night of the murder were, ‘If you think a monkey done it, then you’re the monkey,’ and ‘Any lady worth her goddamned salt can pick a lock.’ In the course of my career, the latter observation has often been proved to be correct.”

Irene’s mansion was not in New York, but north of the city, situated in a vast park reminiscent of England. It was a grand house, with a grand butler opening the door, and a grand parlourmaid bringing in the tea. Moran waited patiently for Irene to appear. His greatest foe, his true rival, and now she would face defeat at his hands. He was past the age of susceptibility to feminine wiles.

“Colonel Moran? What the hell are you doing here, you old tiger?” Irene entered the room, holding out her hands to greet him.

There were still traces of darkness in her hair, and a fierce intelligence in her eyes. The coquette had matured into a queen. She smiled at him as if she knew his thoughts.

“We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven,” she quoted softly. “Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

“I wanted,” he paused. After so many years of feeling dead as he moved through the world, his anger at her had brought him back to life. He took her book out of his pocket.

“I wanted you to sign my book,” he said.

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said, laughing, and the world was young again.


End file.
